:lat=-17.173750:lon=-147.634700:
Time: 1730UTC, COG 260T, SOG 5.0kts, Distance Remaining: 123nm
It was 6am and Mark and I were up and ready to go to Tahiti in the Society Islands. But first, we had to wait and debate for two hours... Wait for the sun to get higher, so we could see enough to safely leave the coral strewn anchorage; debate whether we should go or wait yet another day for better
conditions. The weather predictions - I should really start calling them weather contradictions - were less than ideal for our 260 mile trip to Tahiti. After some contemplation and the realization that the forecast is never spot on (Hey, things might actually turn out better than we are led to believe - the front between us and our destination might dissipate or move instead of being stubbornly stationary...), we decided to lift anchor. We are out of food and have things to do in the big city!
The pass in South Fakarava can be a tricky one, especially when it has been blowing 15-20 knots out of the SE, the way the cut is faced. An outgoing current would oppose the wind and means standing waves and dangerous conditions. We knew the tide was coming in when we left and we had about 2 knots of current against us. Not a problem. Back in the ocean, the seas were big and lumpy around Fakarava. The first thing I did was have a wave crash over me while we sailed around the south part of the island. A salty start of the journey. The second thing I did, once on course, was puke over the
side of the boat. I guess I have gotten used to those slow, mellow conditions during previous passages. Back to bed I went.
We received a call on the VHF and saw some sails approach behind us. It was the Swiss born Frenchman on Ma Louloute, who we had seen the morning before in the lagoon of Fakarava and who was practicing and testing some things on his small Hobie Cat-like boat near us in the afternoon. We chatted with him on the radio a bit and hope to meet up again in Papeete, Tahiti's capital. He is on his way around the world in an open 20 foot catamaran, trying to set the record as "smallest boat to sail around the world" and "first sailboat to do so without a cabin". I'm sure if you google this boat, you
will come up with some interesting facts. I forgot his name, though. He passed Irie at 12-14 knots, twice the speed we were doing!
After that entertaining talk, I stared at the horizon for the rest of the day. The wind blew 15-20 knots from the ESE (behind us), the waves were about 7-10 feet and Irie sped along at 6-7 knots, pretty much on course. She was doing OK, despite getting hit by a shark the evening prior. One of our
grey pets bumped against a rudder when fighting for a piece of chicken skin that ended overboard. Ouch!
At night the conditions mellowed down a bit and our progress slowed to around 5 knots. We expect the trip to take about 48 hours, but we might have to slow down once we approach Tahiti as to avoid going through the surrounding reefs at night. By the time we arrive in the Taina Marina area, Ma Louloute will have beaten us by 24 hours!
Showing posts with label ocean. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ocean. Show all posts
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Trip Marquesas - Tuamotus: Pictures
Pod of dolphins showing us the way to the Tuamotus
Bye, bye Ua Pou and Marquesas
A winged hitchhiker
And in the morning, the boobie is still there!
One of many squalls
Not such a great way to start the night shift: surrounded by squalls
Pretty bad rainstorm
Day 4: becalmed!
With less than 5 knots of wind, we have to fly the spinnaker at night to keep moving (at 2-3 knots)
Passing our first atoll ever
Last sunrise before arriving at Apataki
Friday, February 28, 2014
Marquesas - Tuamotus: Day 5 - Almost There
:lat=-15.651167:lon=-146.338750:
Time: 1730UTC, COG 270T, SOG 3.0kts, Distance Remaining: 18nm
The squalls have disappeared with most of the wind and we have had some lovely night skies and beautiful tourist weather. The 2 foot following seas - with regular waves for a change - make life aboard Irie very comfortable and allow us to do whatever we feel for. It's almost like being at anchor.
:-) Just jumping in the ocean is still not recommended. Even though we only move at about 3 knots (yes, we managed to keep this magic speed up), with the spinnaker in place, there is no way for one person to turn the boat around if the other accidentally lets go and stays behind in the water. For
the last 24 hours, the trip has been slow, but quite enjoyable and we are almost there. Thank Axel for our spinnaker!
Apataki, like all atolls - islands consisting of a lagoon surrounded by motus (low laying islets) - with passes ("entrances"), cannot, or better, should not be entered at just any time of the day. It would be foolish and reckless to attempt this at night, what with all the reefs, wrecks, narrow passes and lack of navigation aids, but even during the day, one has to time it right. The tides are not the problem in the passes; the currents are... Because all the water has to come into the lagoon during flood and leave the
same way during ebb, through narrow entrances, the current at those times - taking up most of the day - can be as strong as 10 knots! The best time to enter or leave the lagoon for a sailboat is therefore right around slack tide, which happens every six hours. Of course, the South Pacific being the South Pacific, still a frontier is many ways, there is no reliable or accurate information to be found, and cruisers use something called the "current guestimator".
Because Irie could not make the afternoon slack tide yesterday (Thursday) and we did not want to enter the lagoon at night, we had to "stay out" for an extra 18 hours to make the first slack tide on Friday. The wind being very light (3-5 knots) made us put that time to good use with a leisurely
sail. Entering an atoll is a new experience for Mark and I. We hope for good light and gentle waters. At least the wind should not cause any issues. In a few hours we will find out how well this "guestimator" works!
Time: 1730UTC, COG 270T, SOG 3.0kts, Distance Remaining: 18nm
The squalls have disappeared with most of the wind and we have had some lovely night skies and beautiful tourist weather. The 2 foot following seas - with regular waves for a change - make life aboard Irie very comfortable and allow us to do whatever we feel for. It's almost like being at anchor.
:-) Just jumping in the ocean is still not recommended. Even though we only move at about 3 knots (yes, we managed to keep this magic speed up), with the spinnaker in place, there is no way for one person to turn the boat around if the other accidentally lets go and stays behind in the water. For
the last 24 hours, the trip has been slow, but quite enjoyable and we are almost there. Thank Axel for our spinnaker!
Apataki, like all atolls - islands consisting of a lagoon surrounded by motus (low laying islets) - with passes ("entrances"), cannot, or better, should not be entered at just any time of the day. It would be foolish and reckless to attempt this at night, what with all the reefs, wrecks, narrow passes and lack of navigation aids, but even during the day, one has to time it right. The tides are not the problem in the passes; the currents are... Because all the water has to come into the lagoon during flood and leave the
same way during ebb, through narrow entrances, the current at those times - taking up most of the day - can be as strong as 10 knots! The best time to enter or leave the lagoon for a sailboat is therefore right around slack tide, which happens every six hours. Of course, the South Pacific being the South Pacific, still a frontier is many ways, there is no reliable or accurate information to be found, and cruisers use something called the "current guestimator".
Because Irie could not make the afternoon slack tide yesterday (Thursday) and we did not want to enter the lagoon at night, we had to "stay out" for an extra 18 hours to make the first slack tide on Friday. The wind being very light (3-5 knots) made us put that time to good use with a leisurely
sail. Entering an atoll is a new experience for Mark and I. We hope for good light and gentle waters. At least the wind should not cause any issues. In a few hours we will find out how well this "guestimator" works!
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Marquesas - Tuamotus: Day 4 - No Wind
:lat=-14.957350:lon=-145.346767:
Time: 1740UTC, COG 230T, SOG 3.0kts, Distance Remaining: 89nm
When we left Ua Pou on Sunday, we knew the wind would become lighter towards the end of the trip. That's why we needed to make some decent progress the first couple of days, and why we were disappointed we didn't. But, it can always get worse... the wind could die. Totally. Not something we expected.
After a pretty crappy night, we took the mainsail down and put the spinnaker up at first light (5:30am). The wind was light, but - by then - we were happy to do 3 knots. Most of the squalls went around us, until the one at noon. It was a big and nasty one, messing with the wind direction, creating
contrary winds, and dumping a lot of rain. Down came the spinnaker and on the engines. The massive cloud refused to move and we became trapped in it, until we decided to slow the boat down, so it could get ahead and leave us alone. That done, the bright sun came back.
The sky turned blue - not another cloud to be seen - and the ocean had an ever deeper hue of blue. It was hot. And... there was no wind. The squalls had taken it all with them. The prediction was still for 10 knots of wind, but instead there was zero. Nothing. Not a hint of breeze. The spinnaker hung limp on the foredeck and had to be taken down. Irie was floating on the calm water and it was quiet. No rushing of the waves, no spinning of the wind generator, no creaking of the lines, no whooshing of the sails. We were done!
Since the forecast called for ever lighter winds, this was not a good sign. We still had 130 miles to go and had come to terms with not getting there in four days. What we couldn't come to terms with was not getting there at all! We drifted for a few hours. Then, we turned the engines on. It was loud, super-hot and smelly. A sense of despair came over us. Motoring for 25 hours would empty the fuel tank, wear the engines down tremendously - and us even more - and would get us to the Apataki lagoon about 17 hours too soon. Off went the engines, and peace returned.
The slightest wisp of air was felt. A smile returned to our faces. The spinnaker showed her colors and - at 3 knots - we moved forward again. How happy one can be with such a small commodity as 5 knots of wind! And that is what it has been blowing ("fluttering" might be a more appropriate word
here) since last night: 2 - 5 knots. Irie is sailing towards Apataki at barely 2 knots an hour. We still have about 100 miles to go and need to do an average of 3 knots to make it there by tomorrow morning!
Time: 1740UTC, COG 230T, SOG 3.0kts, Distance Remaining: 89nm
When we left Ua Pou on Sunday, we knew the wind would become lighter towards the end of the trip. That's why we needed to make some decent progress the first couple of days, and why we were disappointed we didn't. But, it can always get worse... the wind could die. Totally. Not something we expected.
After a pretty crappy night, we took the mainsail down and put the spinnaker up at first light (5:30am). The wind was light, but - by then - we were happy to do 3 knots. Most of the squalls went around us, until the one at noon. It was a big and nasty one, messing with the wind direction, creating
contrary winds, and dumping a lot of rain. Down came the spinnaker and on the engines. The massive cloud refused to move and we became trapped in it, until we decided to slow the boat down, so it could get ahead and leave us alone. That done, the bright sun came back.
The sky turned blue - not another cloud to be seen - and the ocean had an ever deeper hue of blue. It was hot. And... there was no wind. The squalls had taken it all with them. The prediction was still for 10 knots of wind, but instead there was zero. Nothing. Not a hint of breeze. The spinnaker hung limp on the foredeck and had to be taken down. Irie was floating on the calm water and it was quiet. No rushing of the waves, no spinning of the wind generator, no creaking of the lines, no whooshing of the sails. We were done!
Since the forecast called for ever lighter winds, this was not a good sign. We still had 130 miles to go and had come to terms with not getting there in four days. What we couldn't come to terms with was not getting there at all! We drifted for a few hours. Then, we turned the engines on. It was loud, super-hot and smelly. A sense of despair came over us. Motoring for 25 hours would empty the fuel tank, wear the engines down tremendously - and us even more - and would get us to the Apataki lagoon about 17 hours too soon. Off went the engines, and peace returned.
The slightest wisp of air was felt. A smile returned to our faces. The spinnaker showed her colors and - at 3 knots - we moved forward again. How happy one can be with such a small commodity as 5 knots of wind! And that is what it has been blowing ("fluttering" might be a more appropriate word
here) since last night: 2 - 5 knots. Irie is sailing towards Apataki at barely 2 knots an hour. We still have about 100 miles to go and need to do an average of 3 knots to make it there by tomorrow morning!
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Marquesas - Tuamotus: Day 2 - All about Wind
:lat=-12.562500:lon=-143.258133:
Time: 1735UTC, COG 220T, SOG 6.0kts, Distance Remaining: 276nm
We had to ask our fellow traveler to leave. He spent the night on one of our solar panels and was still cleaning his feathers there, when the sun rose higher and higher. Any shadow on the panel - even the one of a bird - restricts its input greatly and we need all the electricity we can get. The wind generator is hardly doing anything in this kind of breeze. Yes, we should have charged those boat batteries before we left...
Today, the wind was lighter than predicted, but its angle being 30° off - in the "wrong direction" (more behind us) - had bigger consequences for our speed. We did manage to keep both sails up, but moved slowly towards our destination. We have always said "It's better to have a comfortable trip that takes a bit longer, than a fast and bumpy one!" On this journey, however, if we don't make it in four days and six hours, we will have to "stay out" another 16 hours. I will explain why in another blog. It might be time to fly that spinnaker when the sun comes up!
When you sail, it is all about the wind. Forget the rain in squalls. Sure, it is wet and inconvenient, but it is the wind in them that messes things up. The same goes for waves and swell. The sea would be dead calm if it isn't for the wind. The harder it blows, the more uncomfortable the ocean becomes and the choppier the anchorages get. The wind decides how fast you sail and where you can go. And, how comfortable the ride is.
I realize the weather is not always perfect in the Caribbean, but at least the predictions are pretty accurate and the wind consistent. Often, we arrived at our destination quicker than planned and the trips were straightforward. That might have had something to do with the fact that we never had the wind behind us going up and down the island chain, but, nevertheless, unobstructed by land, the wind was reliable. Downwind sailing is easier, but slower, and we have been looking forward to it on this ocean.
The wind can be your friend, your enemy or your acquaintance. When we plan our trips, it is based on the wind promising to be our best friend, if not a good friend. That's why we leave when we leave! Once at sea, reality kicks in and the wind becomes more of an acquaintance. It pushes us along and is
friendly enough to help us out, but it doesn't go out of its way or really cares about us getting there fast or direct. At some intervals it becomes our enemy, working against us with annoying shifts, becoming fluky or dropping out altogether. Or by going crazy, blowing hard and kicking up the seas. Luckily that doesn't happen too often and - knock on wood - real storms have stayed away.
As for tonight, the wind seems to have freshened a bit. It appears to do so after the sun is down and we hope to make up some speed during these twelve hours. After a few squalls, I am settling into my nightly routine. In the Caribbean, a squall meant shortening sail and picking up speed. Here in the Pacific, a squall causes wind shifts and then sucks up everything, leaving the boat bobbing aimlessly, sails flogging, boom banging, until the previous conditions resume. Usually.
All our fruit has turned yellow. Maybe I should have specified our preference of unripe fruit when asking for it? No scurvy for us, and if someone would like to share our 70 ripe bananas, 4 full-size papayas, 8 sweet and juicy grapefruits or 10 massive mangoes, you know where to find them: about halfway between Ua Pou and Apataki!
Time: 1735UTC, COG 220T, SOG 6.0kts, Distance Remaining: 276nm
We had to ask our fellow traveler to leave. He spent the night on one of our solar panels and was still cleaning his feathers there, when the sun rose higher and higher. Any shadow on the panel - even the one of a bird - restricts its input greatly and we need all the electricity we can get. The wind generator is hardly doing anything in this kind of breeze. Yes, we should have charged those boat batteries before we left...
Today, the wind was lighter than predicted, but its angle being 30° off - in the "wrong direction" (more behind us) - had bigger consequences for our speed. We did manage to keep both sails up, but moved slowly towards our destination. We have always said "It's better to have a comfortable trip that takes a bit longer, than a fast and bumpy one!" On this journey, however, if we don't make it in four days and six hours, we will have to "stay out" another 16 hours. I will explain why in another blog. It might be time to fly that spinnaker when the sun comes up!
When you sail, it is all about the wind. Forget the rain in squalls. Sure, it is wet and inconvenient, but it is the wind in them that messes things up. The same goes for waves and swell. The sea would be dead calm if it isn't for the wind. The harder it blows, the more uncomfortable the ocean becomes and the choppier the anchorages get. The wind decides how fast you sail and where you can go. And, how comfortable the ride is.
I realize the weather is not always perfect in the Caribbean, but at least the predictions are pretty accurate and the wind consistent. Often, we arrived at our destination quicker than planned and the trips were straightforward. That might have had something to do with the fact that we never had the wind behind us going up and down the island chain, but, nevertheless, unobstructed by land, the wind was reliable. Downwind sailing is easier, but slower, and we have been looking forward to it on this ocean.
The wind can be your friend, your enemy or your acquaintance. When we plan our trips, it is based on the wind promising to be our best friend, if not a good friend. That's why we leave when we leave! Once at sea, reality kicks in and the wind becomes more of an acquaintance. It pushes us along and is
friendly enough to help us out, but it doesn't go out of its way or really cares about us getting there fast or direct. At some intervals it becomes our enemy, working against us with annoying shifts, becoming fluky or dropping out altogether. Or by going crazy, blowing hard and kicking up the seas. Luckily that doesn't happen too often and - knock on wood - real storms have stayed away.
As for tonight, the wind seems to have freshened a bit. It appears to do so after the sun is down and we hope to make up some speed during these twelve hours. After a few squalls, I am settling into my nightly routine. In the Caribbean, a squall meant shortening sail and picking up speed. Here in the Pacific, a squall causes wind shifts and then sucks up everything, leaving the boat bobbing aimlessly, sails flogging, boom banging, until the previous conditions resume. Usually.
All our fruit has turned yellow. Maybe I should have specified our preference of unripe fruit when asking for it? No scurvy for us, and if someone would like to share our 70 ripe bananas, 4 full-size papayas, 8 sweet and juicy grapefruits or 10 massive mangoes, you know where to find them: about halfway between Ua Pou and Apataki!
Monday, February 24, 2014
Marquesas to Tuamotus - Day 1: Slow Start
:lat=-10.929183:lon=-141.668017:
Time: 1735UTC, COG 220T, SOG 5.3kts, Distance Remaining: 411nm
As a side note I want to apologize for the crappy quality of the photos in the previous blog (I will improve them in the future) and for the old location status "Ua Pou" to the right. Blame the lack of (decent) internet in our last anchorage. We are underway now and Mark will update our position on the map daily.
The weather looked promising when we lifted anchor in Hakamaii, Ua Pou around 8am this morning. While the villagers went to church, I hauled Mark up the mast to check the rigging and by the time the service finished, we were underway. The land effect kept our progress to a minimum for quite some time. A massive pod of dolphins sent us off towards the Tuamotus. Floating in the water, swimming back and forth, they got slightly bored with our idleness in the water, but they didn't give up. When we finally gained some speed, so did they. It was a sight to behold.
Ua Pou became smaller, while the distance to the atoll of Apataki slowly shortened. By 1pm the last island of the Marquesas was gone, swallowed up by the clouds. We were all alone in the big, wide ocean. We checked the instruments. We adjusted them. We checked the sails. We adjusted them. We ate fruit. Lots of fruit. As usual at sea, we need to consume bananas as quickly as possible. They are turning yellow as we speak! When the sun makes us drowsy, we take a nap.
A few hours into the trip, the weather did its own Pacific thing again: it changed without any reason. The wind speed dropped five knots and later on even ten (!) knots, the direction became less favorable. At one point, it shifted 60°! All of a sudden we couldn't stay on course anymore. Our speed dropped from an expected 6 knots to 5.5 (required to get there in four days), to 5 and less. By 4pm we were sailing under main sail only and barely doing 3 knots. Half a knot of that was current. Now what? And, today was supposed to be our fastest day, since the wind speed is predicted to go
down...
We hoped for more wind. We asked for more wind. We screamed for more wind. All the while wondering how the breeze could be so inconsistent and unpredictable on this ocean. There were no squalls nearby and we were far from the equator! Our only explanation were the gray clouds in the area or a weather system further away. By 6:30pm, my bedtime, our situation had improved some and we were sailing under full sails again. A boobie (brown and white seabird) landed on the solar panels and joined us for the ride.
Fast forward six hours. Irie is cruising along at more than five knots. The wind keeps fluctuating a bit, there are some squalls around and a skinny moon tries to pop out. Wherever not obscured by clouds, the stars twinkly. Our winged hitchhiker is still here, taking a nap, and so is Mark. We are comfortably sailing for now, so no complaints! :-)
Time: 1735UTC, COG 220T, SOG 5.3kts, Distance Remaining: 411nm
As a side note I want to apologize for the crappy quality of the photos in the previous blog (I will improve them in the future) and for the old location status "Ua Pou" to the right. Blame the lack of (decent) internet in our last anchorage. We are underway now and Mark will update our position on the map daily.
The weather looked promising when we lifted anchor in Hakamaii, Ua Pou around 8am this morning. While the villagers went to church, I hauled Mark up the mast to check the rigging and by the time the service finished, we were underway. The land effect kept our progress to a minimum for quite some time. A massive pod of dolphins sent us off towards the Tuamotus. Floating in the water, swimming back and forth, they got slightly bored with our idleness in the water, but they didn't give up. When we finally gained some speed, so did they. It was a sight to behold.
Ua Pou became smaller, while the distance to the atoll of Apataki slowly shortened. By 1pm the last island of the Marquesas was gone, swallowed up by the clouds. We were all alone in the big, wide ocean. We checked the instruments. We adjusted them. We checked the sails. We adjusted them. We ate fruit. Lots of fruit. As usual at sea, we need to consume bananas as quickly as possible. They are turning yellow as we speak! When the sun makes us drowsy, we take a nap.
A few hours into the trip, the weather did its own Pacific thing again: it changed without any reason. The wind speed dropped five knots and later on even ten (!) knots, the direction became less favorable. At one point, it shifted 60°! All of a sudden we couldn't stay on course anymore. Our speed dropped from an expected 6 knots to 5.5 (required to get there in four days), to 5 and less. By 4pm we were sailing under main sail only and barely doing 3 knots. Half a knot of that was current. Now what? And, today was supposed to be our fastest day, since the wind speed is predicted to go
down...
We hoped for more wind. We asked for more wind. We screamed for more wind. All the while wondering how the breeze could be so inconsistent and unpredictable on this ocean. There were no squalls nearby and we were far from the equator! Our only explanation were the gray clouds in the area or a weather system further away. By 6:30pm, my bedtime, our situation had improved some and we were sailing under full sails again. A boobie (brown and white seabird) landed on the solar panels and joined us for the ride.
Fast forward six hours. Irie is cruising along at more than five knots. The wind keeps fluctuating a bit, there are some squalls around and a skinny moon tries to pop out. Wherever not obscured by clouds, the stars twinkly. Our winged hitchhiker is still here, taking a nap, and so is Mark. We are comfortably sailing for now, so no complaints! :-)
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Passage Gambier to Marquesas - Pictures
Picture time! We finally have internet again...
Here are some photos of Irie's six day sail from the Gambier to the Marquesas Islands, French Polynesia, early this month. To read the daily stories of that trip, click on "older posts" at the bottom of this page and scroll down...
The first sign of a grey and rainy crossing - but it is a nice one!
Soaking up the first sunny day underway, albeit still with a lot of clothes on...
Sailing towards another squall.
The climate is getting sunnier and warmer.
Trying to stay ahead of a front behind us.
We had one nice sunset and enjoyed it!
Blue sky... yes!
The green tomatoes we were given by a local in Rikitea are turning red. Tasty and very special!
Grey sky... we were getting used to it.
Surprise front, coming out of nowhere, and in our path.
Good morning, Pacific Ocean!
And, finally, we caught AND retrieved a big and delicious tuna
Fatu Hiva, here we come (and stay)!
Here are some photos of Irie's six day sail from the Gambier to the Marquesas Islands, French Polynesia, early this month. To read the daily stories of that trip, click on "older posts" at the bottom of this page and scroll down...
The first sign of a grey and rainy crossing - but it is a nice one!
Soaking up the first sunny day underway, albeit still with a lot of clothes on...
Sailing towards another squall.
The climate is getting sunnier and warmer.
Trying to stay ahead of a front behind us.
We had one nice sunset and enjoyed it!
Blue sky... yes!
The green tomatoes we were given by a local in Rikitea are turning red. Tasty and very special!
Grey sky... we were getting used to it.
Surprise front, coming out of nowhere, and in our path.
Good morning, Pacific Ocean!
And, finally, we caught AND retrieved a big and delicious tuna
Fatu Hiva, here we come (and stay)!
Friday, May 31, 2013
Some facts about Irie's Pacific Crossing
If you have never crossed an ocean, and 6-8 foot waves are all
you've experienced while sailing (as was the case with us, prudent Caribbean sailors,
always waiting for a good weather window to move), the Pacific will be an eye opener.
Whatever its name indicates or whichever stories you have heard, this is real ocean
sailing. This ocean is not a peaceful one (where did that name come from?) and should
not be underestimated. Cross swells of over 12 feet, winds of 30 knots, confused
seas, bumpy wind chop and squalls are very common. We were on all points of sail
at some time or another and could not stay on course regularly either, when the
wind came from dead behind or in front of us. Some days are sunny; the nights are
chilly.
Irie's passage can be broken down into 5 parts: a few days of
being becalmed in flat seas and barely moving, eleven days of uncomfortable and
unsettled conditions, while making good, but bumpy progress, a couple of fair
"transition" days, three days of comfortable and peaceful, albeit slow
sailing, and two awful days of beating into wind and waves during stormy, squally,
windy and frustrating (many wind shifts, constantly varying wind speed, high and
rough seas) weather when a front/low pressure system passed overhead.
Amongst cruisers, this particular trip west is called "the
Milk Run" because it is supposed to be an easy, straighforward, downwind journey.
For us it was as much a milk run as there was a milk man around: not. I do have
to specify here that Mark and I sailed from the Galapagos to the Gambier islands,
instead of the Marquesas, French Polynesia's most popular arrival destination. The
route to these more northern islands is said to be less challenging than the one
to the Gambiers. Reports of frequent squalls and confused seas reached us from that
area as well, though, but no fronts go that far north and you don't sail on a beam
reach (uncomfortable wind and waves from the side).
Irie Trip info and tidbits:
* Route: Galapagos islands - Gambier islands, French Polynesia
* Distance: 2938 miles
* Time: 21 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes (May 7 - May 28th, 2013
)
* Hours under engines: 12 (half getting into the anchorage of
Rikitea)
* Hours under sail: 492
* Average speed: 5.8 knots
* Wind direction: SSE-SE-E-ENE, when front passes: all directions
* Wind speed: an average of a perfect 15 knots, but we never saw 15 knots, instead it blew a weak 10 knots or a heavy 25-35 knots!
* Squalls: 42
* Favorable current: 0 knots: a few days + 0.5, a few days -
0.5 early on
* Sail configuration: spinnaker, main (reefed at night and during
heavy weather) and jib
* Sail changes: multiple times a day.
* Gallons of diesel used: 9
* Gallons of water used: 47, including 5 gallons to rinse off
after showering and 2 gallons for laundry
* Other boats encountered: 2
* Objects encountered: 1 floating pole with a black flag, some
garbage, and one whale shark (we think)
* Planes spotted: none
* Fish caught: 1; a smallish mahi mahi, too rough to fish most
of the time
* Lures lost: 3
* Sea life "scooped up": 5 squid, 38 flying fish
* Flying fish whacking Mark on their way into the cockpit: 3
* Time zones traveled through: 3
* Latitude travel: from 1°S
to 23°S
* Longitude travel: from 90° 58' to 134° 58' W
* Days of having fun: Mark: 1, Liesbet: 4
* Seasickness medicine taken (Liesbet, who used to be very prone
to motion sickness): 5 days - 3 days preventive, 2 because of nausea
* Sky: blue, grey or black
* Water: deep blue
* Waves hitting the bridgedeck: Too many to count
* Books read: Mark 6, Liesbet: 1
* Movies watched: Mark 7, Liesbet: 2
* Casualties ("boat bites"): bloody toes, scratched
eye, bruised legs, bumped heads, sore knees, burnt arm - nothing serrious or unusual
* Things we have learned/realized during this passage:
- Why people take planes
to cover 3000 miles
- How long one can go
without a shower (6 days)
- That it takes a long time of not washing up before
one gets smelly (> 6 days) *
- That we really, never
ever get bored; I was going to remove my "Boobie blue" nail polish from
my toes, one toe every day. I arrived in the Gambiers with 8 blue toes and the trip
sure took longer than 2 days...
- That crossing the Pacific
Ocean is not a leisurely "sit back, relax, and enjoy the weather and the ride"
kind of sail
- That this was the longest
amusement park ride of our lives (not in a fun way)
- That sailing is not
easy
- That the wind is never
consistent
- That living in a
"stable" house with conveniences must be so nice
- That it was much colder
than expected, especially at night. Winter clothes and comforter needed!
- That a passage to the
Marquesas would have been easier and more comfortable (a confirmation of what we
knew)
- That the days are short
and the nights long (Southern Hemisphere winter)
- That there is little
time or energy to do the things you like or plan to do, because of exhaustion or
sea state
- That the Pacific doesn't
harbor as much wildlife (whales, dolphins, ...) as we thought
- That one cannot be
in a hurry
* in non-sweaty, Southern Hemisphere conditions
Friday, March 8, 2013
Trip to the Galapagos - Last Leg
If Thursday (day 6) was a gorgeous day of sailing, the night that followed was even more spectacular! The spinnaker charged ahead and the rest followed. We were doing between 6 and 7 knots, without the influence of current, in 13 knots of wind. The sky was clear and sparkling with stars. While I watched the illuminated crests of the waves, the Southern Cross watched me. There were no squalls, no ships and no interruptions. After five nights of “always something” to break the spell of continuity and our time in bed, whether it be a squall, turning the engines on or adjusting the sails, this night Mark and I experienced our dedicated three hours on watch and three hours off, and appreciated every minute of it. That 24 hour period on the ocean came as close to perfection for me as a sail trip can be.
While during the day the atmosphere on Irie is pretty relaxed, with us wearing our undies (the warm clothes and comforter have “long” been put away again), going wherever we please and doing whatever we feel for (sea state permitting), taking turns at the helm, adjusting sails and keeping an eye on the instruments, the nights are a different ball game. When darkness falls and visibility disappears, when one of us left downstairs for some needed sleep, when all has been prepared for 12 hours of monotony and solitude, all our senses are on high alert and our concentration sharpens, until we get too tired. Things happen and they most likely happen at night, when our attention fades. Therefore, we have the following “rules of the night” on Irie: always wear a life jacket, always be strapped to the boat with a tether – to the helm seat while in the cockpit or to the rigged up jack lines while on deck, always have the other person around when needing to go on deck and always wake up the other person when there is a squall or boat approaching, when the sails need serious adjusting or when you are in doubt about something. We both don’t really like rules, but these ones we adamantly stick to.
Day 7 started with a visible sunrise and soon the blue sky followed. It was 7:00 and I had a smile on my face. We had made great progress overnight and at this rate, we could make our destination before dark! Today! The “only” requirement was to keep up an average speed of 6.6 knots. Quite the challenge, sailing along the equator. The stress was back and the mellowness of the previous week gone. The race was on… Not for very long. Around 9:00 the wind speed dropped down to 8 knots and we moved at about 5. Where is that westerly current? It is easy to slow a boat down, but how do you speed it up? Decision time again. We had two choices: use an engine to give the boat the push it needed to pull into the harbor before 18:00 (stupid us forgot that we gained an hour underway and had until “our” 18:30 until the sun set), or slow the boat down, way down, to about 2 knots for an uncomfortable and rolly 23 hours, so we could arrive when there was enough light out again the next morning. Entering the unknown bay (to us) of San Cristobal in the dark was not an option.
We opted for an engine/spinnaker combo. The sun shower was empty, the prepared meals devoured. The boat was getting dirty and our small garbage bag full. The idea of a whole night’s sleep beckoned. We really enjoyed this first long voyage – and are looking forward to the 3000-mile trip to French Polynesia! - and Irie behaved like a good little boat. Only three issues appeared on a 7-day ocean passage, which is great, knowing that we sometimes have three things a day break or fail! A small rip in the spinnaker (on which we put sail tape immediately after noticing), a leaking salt water pump in the starboard engine and a chafe spot on our dinghy from a rubbing solar panel during the windy nights need to be taken care of.
I wrote an excellent book with entertaining and capturing chapters, many funny blog entries, engaging columns and stories people would love. In my head. This is what I do non-stop while being on the water and staring at the sea. Being creative in vain. “Head writing” is my biggest form of entertainment and occupation. Unfortunately, these perfect phrases and revealing thoughts will never be put on paper or find their way to the – no doubt - captivated reader. My head was spinning, my brain was full, Mark and I were tired. It was time to arrive… in the Galapagos Islands! With our own house.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
To the Galapagos - Part 2
I'll just pick up where I left off last time. Tuesday night had us (me) very occupied during the shifts. There were quite a few squalls around (hurray for the extra "boost" of breeze) and the wind shifted and fluctuated a lot. The bad weather cells eventually dissipated, but we kept checking the radar every 20 minutes or so. Electricity is precious while you are sailing long distance with not much solar or wind energy "coming in". The spinnaker was up and that kept me on the edge of my seat. These light wind sails collapse very easily and a vigilant watch has to be kept. So, for three hours, my eyes were on the instruments and the white and red sail flying ahead, like an inflated balloon. I adjusted course frequently to keep the sail full and hold our speed at 4 knots. No time for dozing off that night.
When it was his turn, Mark set the auto pilot and let the spinnaker do its thing. He didn't mind losing a half a knot of speed to get comfort in return. It is much easier that way. When I tried to be more relaxed about it later that night, the wind disappeared almost completely and I got used to a limp spinnaker hanging above the trampoline when the wind meter showed 0.0. At those times we were doing 2.8 knots over the ground and the boat bounced around erratically. Once the wind picked up to 1 or 2 knots - hey, some wind is better than none, especially with the spinnaker - we were "moving along" again at 3 knots. The performance of this sail is unbelievable and under these circumstances it is to our advantage to be light and small! I am amazed that Irie can do 2 knots over water in 2 knots of true wind! Then there is the 1 knot of favorable current on top of that.
Day 5 started with no wind and us bobbing along with the current for a few hours; the spinnaker doing its best trying to billow. We were stalled, but still going the right direction. At least we weren't going backwards! At 10:00 we placed the spinnaker on the other side of the boat - a 20 minute ordeal - and the wind picked up to 2-4 knots, resulting in a new and highly improved cruising speed of 4-5 knots, which in turn offered us a pleasant and relatively comfortable time on board. Ah, the little things in life...
Then, at 15:30, whoosh, the sail backed, bottom edge in the deep blue water. The wind totally died and became "light and variable", meaning the arrow of the wind meter went in circles. No sail could do anything about our new situation and we were doomed to turn the engines on. For hours and hours and hours. Who said sailing in the lowest latitudes was ideal? Or was even possible? But, Mark made giant pretzels and they tasted awesome!
The sea was flat and we didn't need to rig a sail for the night. The weather predictions didn't matter much either, since we were on a direct westerly course to the Galapagos now, in an area of little wind and little change. We motored into the sunset (18:44, was it?) and saw some new type of dolphins - small and black - frolic in the current. The day's highlight happened at 23:18 or so, when we crossed the equator. The plan was to have a virgin rum&coke with a Greek appetizer/snack of filled grape leaves, or Belgian truffles, depending on the hour of "changing hemispheres". It being night and the beginning of my shift - talk about inconvenience - Mark (together with Neptune) imbibed the rum part and I had a glass (yes, real glass ware for the occasion) of coke with a shot of lime juice! Our drinks were accompanied by pieces of chocolate delight from Belgium. Thank you, Griet and Wim. You made our transition from north to south extra sweet! It was quite the party on Irie.
A few hours after the "equator party" (attendees: Mark, Liesbet, Mr. Gecko and a winged hitchhiker), the weirdest thing happened. An hour prior, a slight puff of wind had us turn the engines off and raise the spinnaker in the moonlight. Mark was at the helm, keeping an eye on the radar screen, where squalls dotted the area, a respectable distance away. You don't want to be surprised by one of those, especially flying a very flexble, laid-back, light sail. All of a sudden, a purple smudge on the screen closed in on us, very fast. I was woken up and we immediately dropped the spinnaker. "Hurry!" Mark urged, "I would rather not get wet!" In the quiet of the night we could hear the rain approach. But, there was no wetness involved. Because it wasn't rain. The rustling water sound was created by a series of little waves rushing towards and underneath us like a white water river. A funny current phenomenon. Picked up by the radar, amazingly enough.
Since the sails were down and real squalls were approaching, we took to motoring again, for the rest of the night. One of the systems went over Irie, who was in desperate need of a good fresh water rinse. After months of dry season in Panama, the shower was welcome. Engines roaring, diesel fumes wafting through still air, helm seat vibrating; hour after hour our little boat kept plowing westward at six knots, making decent progress again, "cheating". I'm sure our "competitors" were motoring as well, in this notoriously wind deprived part of the ocean.
The sun woke up and so did Mark. Day 6 arrived, but forgot to bring wind. I was sick of motoring (and we have a small fuel tank), so the alternative was ... drifting. I switched the engines off. Thoughts of movie characters acting out seaventures, sailors caught in the doldrums, and ship wrecked people floating in an endlessly flat ocean crossed my mind. It was dead quiet. Peaceful. Mirror-like seas. Half of my vision filled with water; the other half with air. Both fields separated by a perfectly straight line; the infinite horizon. I saw ripples in the distance, behind us. Within half an hour - joy of joys - a fresh breeze caught up with us. Ready. Set. Action! Spinnaker up, mainsail up (new trick), and off we went for the most perfect sail of the trip, doing 6.5 knots in 12 knot winds! Life is good. ;-)
When it was his turn, Mark set the auto pilot and let the spinnaker do its thing. He didn't mind losing a half a knot of speed to get comfort in return. It is much easier that way. When I tried to be more relaxed about it later that night, the wind disappeared almost completely and I got used to a limp spinnaker hanging above the trampoline when the wind meter showed 0.0. At those times we were doing 2.8 knots over the ground and the boat bounced around erratically. Once the wind picked up to 1 or 2 knots - hey, some wind is better than none, especially with the spinnaker - we were "moving along" again at 3 knots. The performance of this sail is unbelievable and under these circumstances it is to our advantage to be light and small! I am amazed that Irie can do 2 knots over water in 2 knots of true wind! Then there is the 1 knot of favorable current on top of that.
Day 5 started with no wind and us bobbing along with the current for a few hours; the spinnaker doing its best trying to billow. We were stalled, but still going the right direction. At least we weren't going backwards! At 10:00 we placed the spinnaker on the other side of the boat - a 20 minute ordeal - and the wind picked up to 2-4 knots, resulting in a new and highly improved cruising speed of 4-5 knots, which in turn offered us a pleasant and relatively comfortable time on board. Ah, the little things in life...
Then, at 15:30, whoosh, the sail backed, bottom edge in the deep blue water. The wind totally died and became "light and variable", meaning the arrow of the wind meter went in circles. No sail could do anything about our new situation and we were doomed to turn the engines on. For hours and hours and hours. Who said sailing in the lowest latitudes was ideal? Or was even possible? But, Mark made giant pretzels and they tasted awesome!
The sea was flat and we didn't need to rig a sail for the night. The weather predictions didn't matter much either, since we were on a direct westerly course to the Galapagos now, in an area of little wind and little change. We motored into the sunset (18:44, was it?) and saw some new type of dolphins - small and black - frolic in the current. The day's highlight happened at 23:18 or so, when we crossed the equator. The plan was to have a virgin rum&coke with a Greek appetizer/snack of filled grape leaves, or Belgian truffles, depending on the hour of "changing hemispheres". It being night and the beginning of my shift - talk about inconvenience - Mark (together with Neptune) imbibed the rum part and I had a glass (yes, real glass ware for the occasion) of coke with a shot of lime juice! Our drinks were accompanied by pieces of chocolate delight from Belgium. Thank you, Griet and Wim. You made our transition from north to south extra sweet! It was quite the party on Irie.
A few hours after the "equator party" (attendees: Mark, Liesbet, Mr. Gecko and a winged hitchhiker), the weirdest thing happened. An hour prior, a slight puff of wind had us turn the engines off and raise the spinnaker in the moonlight. Mark was at the helm, keeping an eye on the radar screen, where squalls dotted the area, a respectable distance away. You don't want to be surprised by one of those, especially flying a very flexble, laid-back, light sail. All of a sudden, a purple smudge on the screen closed in on us, very fast. I was woken up and we immediately dropped the spinnaker. "Hurry!" Mark urged, "I would rather not get wet!" In the quiet of the night we could hear the rain approach. But, there was no wetness involved. Because it wasn't rain. The rustling water sound was created by a series of little waves rushing towards and underneath us like a white water river. A funny current phenomenon. Picked up by the radar, amazingly enough.
Since the sails were down and real squalls were approaching, we took to motoring again, for the rest of the night. One of the systems went over Irie, who was in desperate need of a good fresh water rinse. After months of dry season in Panama, the shower was welcome. Engines roaring, diesel fumes wafting through still air, helm seat vibrating; hour after hour our little boat kept plowing westward at six knots, making decent progress again, "cheating". I'm sure our "competitors" were motoring as well, in this notoriously wind deprived part of the ocean.
The sun woke up and so did Mark. Day 6 arrived, but forgot to bring wind. I was sick of motoring (and we have a small fuel tank), so the alternative was ... drifting. I switched the engines off. Thoughts of movie characters acting out seaventures, sailors caught in the doldrums, and ship wrecked people floating in an endlessly flat ocean crossed my mind. It was dead quiet. Peaceful. Mirror-like seas. Half of my vision filled with water; the other half with air. Both fields separated by a perfectly straight line; the infinite horizon. I saw ripples in the distance, behind us. Within half an hour - joy of joys - a fresh breeze caught up with us. Ready. Set. Action! Spinnaker up, mainsail up (new trick), and off we went for the most perfect sail of the trip, doing 6.5 knots in 12 knot winds! Life is good. ;-)
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Halfway to the Galapagos
After all these years, I have finally discovered a way to write short blog posts: buy a satellite phone, head out into the ocean and send a position report with a limited amount of characters for the cheap rate of 50 cents! Of course, after a few days, writing withdrawal happens and the desire to turn my computer on – which, by the way, broke today typing this blog; it must be too long again - and touching those cute keys of my keyboard becomes imminent.
Mark and I left Las Perlas and Panama for the Galapagos Islands last Saturday. We were ready, but had to wait a bit for the breeze to fill in. This 900-ish mile journey is seen as a difficult one. Not so much from a safety or stormy perspective, but from another weather occurrence. The winds are generally (too) light, change direction at some point, become variable and disappear completely in the ITCZ ("doldrums") area. So, you better have some wind to start with. In our case, the second and third days were predicted to become VERY windy – not Mark's idea of an ideal first long distance sail. It was a reason we wanted to begin the journey a day "ahead", to try and avoid the worst of the system.
Day 1 had us fly the spinnaker, doing a speed of about five - six knots. A few other sailboats left with us and soon disappeared behind the horizon. We had VHF radio contact with two of them during the day. Irie, with her 35 feet overall length, is small compared to other cruising boats around. She is not labeled or "certified" as an ocean going vessel. We trust her, however, and she is a great and safe little catamaran that has not disappointed us yet. We just have to be a little more careful and take into consideration her smaller size and lighter design. What this means on the Pacific Ocean is that we should reef conservatively and not surf down waves at 13 knots! She does stand her ground, though, and is sailing majestically.
The first evening, we concluded just having the mainsail up would give us the best downwind progress. Unpredicted, the wind piped up to 35+ knots at night and when we were surfing at over 12 knots (with a new Irie record of 13.6 knots), we decided it was time to put two reefs in the main. For the rest of the night, with only a double reefed main up, we were sailing at well over 7 knots. Day 2 had a decent amount of wind as well, and we changed our course so we could use our main and jib. By the following evening, we had learned our lesson and started the night shifts with a double reefed main, no jib, to make more southward progress (downwind). When a similar scenario of the previous night occurred, with winds topping 35 knots and waves bigger than Irie, we had yet to make another adjustment in the middle of the night, centering the main sail to reduce speed. All it would take is surfing down one massive wave and having our bows dig into the water first, to have our house flipped over. Did I mention we have a small and light boat? Which is a tad heavier than usual with all the extra provisions?
The first days and nights, we were constantly slowing Irie down, making the gap between us and our larger, heavier peers bigger. On day 3, another downwind haul, we started with a full main up. The wind blew a steady 30-35 knots and we were moving along nicely, at 9 knots. (I have to admit, we have been having 1-3 knots of current with us.) Frequently, we would surf down the waves and saw our speed over ground top 12 knots. "Fun and invigorating" says Liesbet. "Scary! I'm not liking this!" says Mark. And reefs appear in the sail again. For this, we unfurl the jib a little bit, head into the wind and gigantic – wet – waves, drop the main a bit, put the two reefs in and haul her up again, considerably reduced in size. It made the ride more safe and comfortable, and we were still doing 7-8 knots. It was great, even though we couldn't really do much more than sail on the bumpy ocean.
Last night, the wind dropped big time. But, you never know; the previous nights it blew pretty hard from the moment the sun went down… So, we started off with a double reefed main, in 15 knots of wind, and made slow progress. Maybe it would be a quiet and comfortable night, once the waves settled down? Or maybe the wind would pick up just enough? Kind of a waste to go so slow… In between our shifts, we went to the trice daily procedure again and took the reefs out. For the next four hours, the sails and boom slapped and banged around, while the wind speed reduced to less than 10 knots. Not wanting to deal with all the work involved putting the spinnaker up at night, we resigned to … motoring for four hours. Darn!
First thing this morning, we "installed" our saving grace, the spinnaker, which is a light wind sail. With it blowing barely seven knots (apparent wind less than 2 knots), it is the only sail we have that will get us moving, albeit relatively slowly. Thanks again, Axel! The seas have settled down and today's ride has been very smooth indeed! We finally got to do some "different" things than usually. Distance-wise we are over half way to the Galapagos at this point, but time will tell how much progress we can keep making in the light winds. We will fly our colorful sail tonight as well. At least we'll try.
Being out on the ocean for four days now, Mark and I have developed a certain routine. The day "starts" at 8:00, when we write an entry in the logbook, check the old weather report, (re)consider our course and (re)adjust the sail(s). Then we have breakfast of homemade granola mixed with cheap cornflakes and milk or soymilk. At 9:00, the daily Pan Pacific net starts on the SSB radio. We listen to the check-ins from "vessels underway", plot our friends' positions and track their progress towards the Galapagos. If we are lucky, we receive a decent and current weather forecast of "our area". We can't check in ourselves, since we don't have an SSB transmitter, only a small receiver. We also don't have a water maker, a freezer and a life raft. Together with our small size this makes us very special! :-)
During the day we keep ourselves busy with sailing the boat, staring at the horizon – without getting seasick! – figuring out routing and weather (Mark spent days on end doing this before we left and still spends many hours a day figuring everything out. He's doing a great job interpreting and incorporating the grib files, but the forecasts are never right, unfortunately. The wind directions seem to be pretty accurate, but the speeds are way over or underestimated.), and resting. We have yummy sandwiches for lunch around noon, after I do a "manual" log and plot our course on a paper chart of the Pacific Ocean, which is… big! The ocean is.
At 17:00 the evening procedures start. Not with cocktail time, but with reeling in the fishing line and figuring out a (new) course and sail trim. We do this before the sun sets, to avoid the cold, windy, pitch black and slippery decks at night. Haha! Then, we have one of our six pre-prepared and tasty dinners and do the dishes. Mark installed a salt water pump and spigot in the sink recently. One of the best additions to an always improving Irie! We have interesting conversations, like "What time did the sun set?" "18:34" "What time is it this evening? She's going down right now!" "18:39" We write another log on the computer and at 19:00 Mark grabs the new weather forecast and grib files and takes all the new information into account. More than likely – by then it is dark – we adjust the sail(s) again, and another time at some point during the night. Around 20:00, we start our three hour night shifts: Mark until 23:00, then me until 2:00, Mark again until 5:00 and me again until 8:00. Whoever is off shift, tries to sleep in our bed downstairs.
What do we do during our night shifts? Mark is all alone with his tablet. He listens to music and watches something on the screen. I am all alone with my thoughts. I listen to the sounds of the boat – whooshing of the waves, wind generator, creaks and bangs – and watch the twinkling phosphorescents in our wake and the bright stars in the sky. We keep an eye on the instruments and the sails and every fifteen minutes we check the horizon. It is inevitable that we "knikkebol" (doze off) more than once in a while.
We haven't seen any wildlife worth mentioning yet, except a helicopter checking us out. We also haven't caught any fish yet. Mark did put a second fishing line out today, but I expect them to catch each other, before they catch something edible! The previous days have been chilly during the day and cold at night. We dug out long pants, sweaters, socks, hats and the comforter to sleep under. The heavy winds and cool air has not been very conducive to taking showers. Luckily, there is no one around, for hundreds of miles… Today, the sun came out, the wind disappeared and the sky was a beautiful blue. The highlight of the day was a fresh water sun shower in the cockpit and … a change of underwear. And so, there is some special event every day on the water. One day soon, it will be crossing the equator – which will have to be celebrated in Irie fashion – another day, we will catch a fish!
Now that the conditions have settled down (let's hope we will keep having some wind), I could see us do this forever. The new auto pilot has been performing splendidly and so have Mark and I. We have not beaten each other up yet and the atmosphere is one of team work, a daily chat, having meals together and enjoying quiet time. It is so nice not to be stressed and busy anymore. Today was a bit tougher, after three "rough" nights in a row and trying to keep the boat moving, but once we kept going, spirits lifted. We are pretty tired, but other than that… all OK! :-)
Mark and I left Las Perlas and Panama for the Galapagos Islands last Saturday. We were ready, but had to wait a bit for the breeze to fill in. This 900-ish mile journey is seen as a difficult one. Not so much from a safety or stormy perspective, but from another weather occurrence. The winds are generally (too) light, change direction at some point, become variable and disappear completely in the ITCZ ("doldrums") area. So, you better have some wind to start with. In our case, the second and third days were predicted to become VERY windy – not Mark's idea of an ideal first long distance sail. It was a reason we wanted to begin the journey a day "ahead", to try and avoid the worst of the system.
Day 1 had us fly the spinnaker, doing a speed of about five - six knots. A few other sailboats left with us and soon disappeared behind the horizon. We had VHF radio contact with two of them during the day. Irie, with her 35 feet overall length, is small compared to other cruising boats around. She is not labeled or "certified" as an ocean going vessel. We trust her, however, and she is a great and safe little catamaran that has not disappointed us yet. We just have to be a little more careful and take into consideration her smaller size and lighter design. What this means on the Pacific Ocean is that we should reef conservatively and not surf down waves at 13 knots! She does stand her ground, though, and is sailing majestically.
The first evening, we concluded just having the mainsail up would give us the best downwind progress. Unpredicted, the wind piped up to 35+ knots at night and when we were surfing at over 12 knots (with a new Irie record of 13.6 knots), we decided it was time to put two reefs in the main. For the rest of the night, with only a double reefed main up, we were sailing at well over 7 knots. Day 2 had a decent amount of wind as well, and we changed our course so we could use our main and jib. By the following evening, we had learned our lesson and started the night shifts with a double reefed main, no jib, to make more southward progress (downwind). When a similar scenario of the previous night occurred, with winds topping 35 knots and waves bigger than Irie, we had yet to make another adjustment in the middle of the night, centering the main sail to reduce speed. All it would take is surfing down one massive wave and having our bows dig into the water first, to have our house flipped over. Did I mention we have a small and light boat? Which is a tad heavier than usual with all the extra provisions?
The first days and nights, we were constantly slowing Irie down, making the gap between us and our larger, heavier peers bigger. On day 3, another downwind haul, we started with a full main up. The wind blew a steady 30-35 knots and we were moving along nicely, at 9 knots. (I have to admit, we have been having 1-3 knots of current with us.) Frequently, we would surf down the waves and saw our speed over ground top 12 knots. "Fun and invigorating" says Liesbet. "Scary! I'm not liking this!" says Mark. And reefs appear in the sail again. For this, we unfurl the jib a little bit, head into the wind and gigantic – wet – waves, drop the main a bit, put the two reefs in and haul her up again, considerably reduced in size. It made the ride more safe and comfortable, and we were still doing 7-8 knots. It was great, even though we couldn't really do much more than sail on the bumpy ocean.
Last night, the wind dropped big time. But, you never know; the previous nights it blew pretty hard from the moment the sun went down… So, we started off with a double reefed main, in 15 knots of wind, and made slow progress. Maybe it would be a quiet and comfortable night, once the waves settled down? Or maybe the wind would pick up just enough? Kind of a waste to go so slow… In between our shifts, we went to the trice daily procedure again and took the reefs out. For the next four hours, the sails and boom slapped and banged around, while the wind speed reduced to less than 10 knots. Not wanting to deal with all the work involved putting the spinnaker up at night, we resigned to … motoring for four hours. Darn!
First thing this morning, we "installed" our saving grace, the spinnaker, which is a light wind sail. With it blowing barely seven knots (apparent wind less than 2 knots), it is the only sail we have that will get us moving, albeit relatively slowly. Thanks again, Axel! The seas have settled down and today's ride has been very smooth indeed! We finally got to do some "different" things than usually. Distance-wise we are over half way to the Galapagos at this point, but time will tell how much progress we can keep making in the light winds. We will fly our colorful sail tonight as well. At least we'll try.
Being out on the ocean for four days now, Mark and I have developed a certain routine. The day "starts" at 8:00, when we write an entry in the logbook, check the old weather report, (re)consider our course and (re)adjust the sail(s). Then we have breakfast of homemade granola mixed with cheap cornflakes and milk or soymilk. At 9:00, the daily Pan Pacific net starts on the SSB radio. We listen to the check-ins from "vessels underway", plot our friends' positions and track their progress towards the Galapagos. If we are lucky, we receive a decent and current weather forecast of "our area". We can't check in ourselves, since we don't have an SSB transmitter, only a small receiver. We also don't have a water maker, a freezer and a life raft. Together with our small size this makes us very special! :-)
During the day we keep ourselves busy with sailing the boat, staring at the horizon – without getting seasick! – figuring out routing and weather (Mark spent days on end doing this before we left and still spends many hours a day figuring everything out. He's doing a great job interpreting and incorporating the grib files, but the forecasts are never right, unfortunately. The wind directions seem to be pretty accurate, but the speeds are way over or underestimated.), and resting. We have yummy sandwiches for lunch around noon, after I do a "manual" log and plot our course on a paper chart of the Pacific Ocean, which is… big! The ocean is.
At 17:00 the evening procedures start. Not with cocktail time, but with reeling in the fishing line and figuring out a (new) course and sail trim. We do this before the sun sets, to avoid the cold, windy, pitch black and slippery decks at night. Haha! Then, we have one of our six pre-prepared and tasty dinners and do the dishes. Mark installed a salt water pump and spigot in the sink recently. One of the best additions to an always improving Irie! We have interesting conversations, like "What time did the sun set?" "18:34" "What time is it this evening? She's going down right now!" "18:39" We write another log on the computer and at 19:00 Mark grabs the new weather forecast and grib files and takes all the new information into account. More than likely – by then it is dark – we adjust the sail(s) again, and another time at some point during the night. Around 20:00, we start our three hour night shifts: Mark until 23:00, then me until 2:00, Mark again until 5:00 and me again until 8:00. Whoever is off shift, tries to sleep in our bed downstairs.
What do we do during our night shifts? Mark is all alone with his tablet. He listens to music and watches something on the screen. I am all alone with my thoughts. I listen to the sounds of the boat – whooshing of the waves, wind generator, creaks and bangs – and watch the twinkling phosphorescents in our wake and the bright stars in the sky. We keep an eye on the instruments and the sails and every fifteen minutes we check the horizon. It is inevitable that we "knikkebol" (doze off) more than once in a while.
We haven't seen any wildlife worth mentioning yet, except a helicopter checking us out. We also haven't caught any fish yet. Mark did put a second fishing line out today, but I expect them to catch each other, before they catch something edible! The previous days have been chilly during the day and cold at night. We dug out long pants, sweaters, socks, hats and the comforter to sleep under. The heavy winds and cool air has not been very conducive to taking showers. Luckily, there is no one around, for hundreds of miles… Today, the sun came out, the wind disappeared and the sky was a beautiful blue. The highlight of the day was a fresh water sun shower in the cockpit and … a change of underwear. And so, there is some special event every day on the water. One day soon, it will be crossing the equator – which will have to be celebrated in Irie fashion – another day, we will catch a fish!
Now that the conditions have settled down (let's hope we will keep having some wind), I could see us do this forever. The new auto pilot has been performing splendidly and so have Mark and I. We have not beaten each other up yet and the atmosphere is one of team work, a daily chat, having meals together and enjoying quiet time. It is so nice not to be stressed and busy anymore. Today was a bit tougher, after three "rough" nights in a row and trying to keep the boat moving, but once we kept going, spirits lifted. We are pretty tired, but other than that… all OK! :-)
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